The Maelstrom

~ 13 ~ The Aurora and the Polestar

War was declared the next afternoon.

No grand gestures accompanied the news. There were no crowds or trumpets or defiant proclamations. Hostilities were announced with no more than a letter. The Director delivered it herself to Lord Naberius’s ship, descending the cliffs alone and bracing herself against the ocean gales as she walked the long dock. One of the ambassador’s servants accepted the slim envelope and brought it inside. Within the hour, the sinister black xebec weighed anchor and sailed out of Rowan Harbor, navigating around Gràvenmuir’s treacherous remains.

The rejection of Prusias’s demands triggered a firestorm of controversy. Many labeled the Director a fool; others questioned her authority to make such a monumental decision. She was skewered in the press and hanged in effigy by frightened mobs that marched upon the Manse demanding explanations. Ms. Richter met them on the steps and calmly explained that Rowan was a haven for free peoples and that it would fight for that freedom. Any who lacked the necessary courage or conviction to make such a stand was welcome to leave. The choice was theirs.

In the weeks that followed, thousands took the Director at her word, packing their families and possessions onto carts and wagons and heading west into the continent’s vast interior. Max was not sorry to see them go. With war on the horizon, Rowan would face her greatest challenge; she needed stalwart volunteers, not halfhearted conscripts.

This very thought occurred to Max very early one February morning as he hurried across the campus. Some hundred yards ahead, a lone wagon was making its way down a cobbled lane toward Rowan’s massive Southgate. Skulking out while everyone’s asleep, Max mused, eyeing a lean man walking alongside the horse. When the wagon passed beneath a streetlamp, the eerie light illuminated a blond and familiar head. Max quickened his pace.

“Nigel!”

Halting, Nigel Bristow turned and peered back through the murk. When he saw who it was, Max’s old recruiter smiled and shook him warmly by the hand, standing aside so Max could say hello to Emily Bristow and their toddler, Emma. The pair was sitting in the wagon’s driver’s seat, bundled up against the chill.

“And where are you off to at such an ungodly hour?” asked Nigel.

“The Euclidean Fields,” replied Max. “I’ve got my troops training there.”

“At five in the morning?” exclaimed Emily. “It’s a wonder anyone shows!”

“Oh, they’ll show,” said Max, smiling. “If not, we’ll start training at four.”

“From student to slavemaster in a few short years,” quipped Nigel. “And which troops are so unlucky as to have you as a commander? I confess I’m behind on the assignments.”

“The Trench Rats.”

Nigel looked puzzled. “But that’s basic infantry,” he said. “Some might say remedial infantry. Surely the Director offered you other options.”

“She did,” Max admitted. “But I turned them down.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” said Nigel, incredulous.

“What’s the matter with the Trench Rats, dear?” inquired Emily delicately.

“Well,” said Nigel, stalling for something politic, “they’re … I suppose one should say …”

Max put him out of his misery.

“They’re the dregs,” he stated flatly. “They’re the leftover refugees no other regiments wanted.”

“Why not?” wondered Emily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Too old.” Max shrugged. “Too young. Too inexperienced. Too unruly. Take your pick.”

“Yes, but why are you leading them?” pressed Nigel. “It’s very noble of you, but surely another Agent can teach them to shoot an arrow or hold a pike. Forgive me, but it seems a poor use of Rowan’s finest warrior. I’m surprised Ms. Richter allowed it.”

Max posed a question of his own. “If I train and fight alongside the Trench Rats, what message does that send to the rest of the refugees?”

Nigel pondered this before clucking his tongue appreciatively. “Very clever,” he admitted. “Our greatest warrior serves alongside the least, thus improving morale, unity, and discipline throughout the battalions. No wonder I’m not Director.…”

“You can’t be Director if you leave,” said Max, glancing pointedly at the wagon.

“I’m not leaving,” sighed Nigel, taking his wife’s hand. “Just the girls. They’re going to live with Emily’s sister in Glenharrow. I’m merely seeing them off.”

Max had heard of the place, a thriving settlement that was a two-week journey west.

“But wouldn’t the cliffs be safer?” he suggested, referring to the high series of caves deep within the Sanctuary. “Glenharrow’s far and the roads are getting worse.”

“I’ve sheltered in those cliffs before,” said Emily stubbornly, her tone suggesting Max had broached a well-worn topic. “If the Enemy scales those walls, there’s no other place to go. I can’t—I won’t—trust my daughter’s life to such a death trap.”

It was no use arguing. Max would rather defend a strong place, but he could see Emily’s point. Glenharrow and the inland settlements were no threat to Prusias; perhaps they would escape his attention entirely. A bell sounded faintly from Rowan Harbor.

“We’d best be going,” said Nigel gently. “Other families are waiting for us outside the gate.”

Nodding, Max leaned into the wagon to hug Emily and pat Emma’s shoe. The child grinned at him, ruddy-cheeked in the cold as her father took up the horse’s reins.

“Be safe, dear,” said Emily, wiping away a tear.

“You too.”

Max watched the Bristows go, the old mare clopping slowly toward the looming walls of Rowan’s Southgate. As they vanished into the mist, he trotted off to meet his troops.

There was less fog upon the Euclidean Fields, but it was also colder as the wind channeled through breaks in the forest to sweep across the broad, open space. The enchanted grounds had once been used for a unique brand of soccer where matches took place on an undulating pitch whose shifting hills and gullies added new dimensions and challenges to the game. Since the declaration of war, however, Max had claimed and repurposed the fields to capitalize upon its unique properties.

Spectator stands had been cleared away to accommodate trenches along the perimeter while Monsieur Renard’s beloved turf had been trampled into a muddy morass. The fields no longer bore any resemblance to an elegant array of soccer pitches. With their trenches, barricades, and bonfires, the fields resembled a war zone, and that was just the way Max wanted them.

There had been three pitches and his troops now covered all of them, twelve hundred men, women, and children standing about in clusters and blowing on their hands. They were a sorry spectacle, a veritable sea of mottled leather and quilted vests holding longbows or spears or whatever else they’d made, salvaged, or stolen on their travels. An unspectacular group, but a willing one. For the most part, they’d done as asked, submitting to orders and doing so with more spirit and energy than Max might have hoped. Thus far, only a score had been dismissed for various acts of fighting, drunkenness, and insubordination.

A well-ordered mind was required to manage so many people efficiently, and Max knew that his talents did not lie that way. He’d considered asking Miss Boon for assistance, but her time was taken up with analyzing the pinlegs. The more experienced Agents had commands of their own, and, of course, Ms. Richter was busy beyond all comprehension. In the end, Max had turned to Tweedy—a Highlands hare with a sharp brain and sharper tongue who worked in Bacon Library. The gruff hare accepted at once, demanding the title of aide-de-camp, an officer’s commission, and the freedom to organize the battalion’s administration as he saw fit.

And organize he did. The battalion met three times each day—at dawn, midday, and dusk—for physical exercise, weapons training, and combat simulations. Tweedy ensured there were cooks on hand, an officers’ mess, and a medical tent where a moomenhoven named Chloe tended the innumerable bumps, bruises, and cuts that came from hard training. Throughout the days, Tweedy hurried about with his clipboard, taking note of progress and barking orders to Jack, the scrawny refugee who the hare had designated as a messenger.

Tweedy was not the only Rowan regular to join the Trench Rats. Sarah, Lucia, and Cynthia had signed up, too. Sarah took command of an entire company while Lucia and Cynthia served as the battalion’s Mystics. Rolf’s charge, Orion, had also joined, the massive shedu bringing along a pair of centaurs whose skills at archery made them an invaluable resource when it came to teaching those who were ill-suited for hand-to-hand combat.

The battalion’s greatest asset, however, was Bob.

He’d reported the very first morning the Trench Rats had assembled, standing at attention with a notched cudgel. As Tweedy took roll, the ogre recited his name and stared dutifully ahead with only the merest twinkle in his pale blue eyes.

Max was delighted to have him. Bob was not only formidable, but also his steady presence and calm, natural authority did a great deal to settle any arguments or bickering before they flared into outright brawls. Of greatest importance, however, was the simple fact that Bob was indeed an ogre. Very few refugees had ever witnessed an ogre’s battle charge and lived to tell the tale. The fact that their battalion boasted a live specimen who gamely demonstrated such horrors was exceedingly valuable. No simulation—not even Lucia’s illusions—could wholly capture the experience of having to hold one’s ground against the onrush of a ten-foot, five-hundred-pound monstrosity. Time and again, Bob would smash through formations of anxious soldiers until they learned to stand as one and level their pikes in unison.

In all, Max was pleased. The Trench Rats were not the Red Branch and would never be, but he took comfort knowing they were no longer lambs being led to slaughter. They were acquiring discipline and proper technique, and—most importantly—they learned that Rowan valued them. As Max arrived at his command hill, he looked upon faces that had been purged of hostility and skepticism.

There was one conspicuous exception. Tweedy came bounding up the slope, his whiskers twitching with indignation.

“Having a comfy snooze, ‘Commander’ McDaniels?”

“I thought we were on for five o’clock,” said Max, confused.

“Correct!” chuffed Tweedy, noting something on his clipboard.

“Then why are you upset? I’m five minutes early.”

“Are you to be congratulated, then?” exclaimed the hare in his rough burr. “A battalion commander sidling up at the appointed hour like some slack-jawed delinquent. For shame! What kind of example are you setting for your troops, sir? Shall they mimic their commander and dillydally about their duties with casual indifference? Even that Swedish monoglot arrived twenty minutes early!”

“You’re right,” Max sighed, recognizing the folly of argument or explanation. “It won’t happen again. How would you like to begin?”

“Humph,” said Tweedy, simmering down and consulting his notes. “I think we should get back to basics. The troops are overly pleased with their progress of late and have taken to boasting. Unbecoming, undeserved, and un—what is it, Mr. Cochran?” The hare whirled on the refugee boy Jack, who promptly froze midstride.

“Er … begging pardon, but some of the troops are wondering when we’re going to begin. It’s awful cold just to be standing about.”

Tweedy glared up at Max. “I rest my case!” he cried before turning upon his cringing messenger. “You tell those fidgeting miscreants that they will stand in place all morning until it pleases me to acknowledge them. You tell them—”

Max shouted a command. Instantly, the troops gave a unified reply and quickstepped into their review formations. It had taken them weeks to stop bumping into one another, but they finally seemed to have it down, Max reflected as he strode down the hill to review them. They stood at rigid attention, forty soldiers to each platoon, pikemen in front and bowmen in back, along with six troops assigned to operate a wheeled ballista that could fire enormous bolts at a rate of two or even three per minute. He stopped before a middle-aged soldier whose pockmarked face was missing an eye.

“Name?” he asked.

“Sameer,” replied the man, clearing his voice. “Pikeman, right flank.”

“What’s our turf?”

“Trench Nineteen.”

“What’s our job?”

“To hold the line,” he said fiercely. “Nothing gets past.”

“Are you the worst pikeman in your unit?”

“Hell no,” spat Sameer before recovering himself. “I mean, no, sir.”

“Who is?”

The question was met with a blank, reluctant expression. The man had no wish to inform on his fellows. When Max repeated the question, however, Sameer relented.

“It’s Richard,” he said, nodding toward a gangly, reddening youth two spots over. “Sorry, boy, but you know it’s true.”

Richard nodded glumly but kept his eyes straight ahead.

“From this day forward, you’re responsible for Richard,” said Max. “It’s your job to help him get better. Is that understood? By week’s end, Richard will lead a demonstration with Bob.”

Richard looked ill.

Max turned to Tweedy. “Have the commander of each unit submit a list ranking their troops by midday.”

Tweedy made a note and Max continued his inspection, finishing with the Rowan specialists who were not assigned to any one unit. These included his former classmates, Bob, Orion, and the centaurs, along with Umbra. The refugee girl stood apart from the rest, leaning upon her formidable spear and staring at Max.

“Umbra, I want you to focus on training the best troops from each of the commander’s lists. They’ll be responsible for working with the next four and so on. Is that understood?”

She nodded.

“Lucia and Cynthia, can you spend the morning working on a simulation for tonight? Ideally, there will be a surprise or two. I want to see if they can stay calm and maintain discipline in a crisis. Got it?”

The girls looked knowingly at one another. Lucia flashed a wicked smile.

“I take it that’s a yes,” said Max. “Unless there are questions, we’ll have Sarah and Ajax lead the conditioning.”

Max stepped aside as Sarah and the refugee leader took command and started barking orders at the troops. There was a stamp and clash, the clink of mail and the thump of boots as the units fell into single-file lines and began to jog about the field’s perimeter. Max and Umbra joined the last, trotting behind the gasping pikemen even as the enchanted terrain began to shift beneath their feet, forming deep ditches and wheeze-inducing hills.

He could not help but glance at Umbra as they ran alongside one another. The girl remained a mystery. She was often the first to the fields and the last to leave, but she rarely spoke or consorted with the other soldiers unless absolutely necessary. Even Ajax—ever haughty and irreverent—treaded carefully around her. It was not just Umbra’s skill that checked him, but her air of simmering, watchful intensity. She forever reminded Max of a viper, coiled and poised to strike.

“Where are you from?” he asked, quickening his pace at Sarah’s whistle.

“Far.”

“Ajax says you fell in with them as they came down the coast.”

She nodded, breathing easily as they climbed a steep hill.

“Where did you learn how to fight?”

“Here and there,” she muttered, shifting her spear to the other hand.

“Why’d you choose the Trench Rats?” Max wondered. “I heard the Vanguard offered you a place.”

“I’m not here for the Vanguard.”

“What are you here for, then?” asked Max with a laugh.

“You.”

A chill raced down Max’s spine. Umbra did not look at him when she said it; she stared stoically ahead, running with a doe’s effortless grace. He let her go on without him, falling back and watching the troops clamber up a hundred-foot rise while Sarah and Ajax barked encouragement.

What on earth did Umbra mean that she was here for him? The word and its strange delivery had so many possible interpretations. Had she joined the Trench Rats because of Max’s formidable reputation? Had she enlisted because he might have something to teach her? Did the word imply some sort of threat or was it just the opposite—the awkward admission of a crush?

By midafternoon, this last possibility seemed absurd and Max reddened at his vanity. If their conversation had embarrassed Umbra, she gave no indication. While the troops rested and ate with their units, Umbra sat alone beneath a tree, sharpening her spear and glancing occasionally at Max as he collected the lieutenants’ lists. There was nothing shy, friendly, or even familiar about the way she looked at him; he simply seemed to be an object of ongoing curiosity.

Putting her out of his mind, Max was enduring another Tweedy harangue about those running the armories and storerooms (“Base thieves and charlatans!”) when he happened to pass Tam, Kat, and the other refugees who had confronted him when he’d returned to Rowan the previous fall. The group was huddled around one of the many firepits, resting before weapons training and eating hot porridge and bread. They looked absurdly young sitting there with their round faces and eager expressions as one girl regaled the group with an amusing story. Their weapons were strewn about them like discarded toys—bows, quivers, a long knife, and a dozen pikes along with Tam’s prized sword. Catching sight of Max, Tam nearly choked out her porridge and stood at attention.

“At ease,” said Max, motioning for her to be seated. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Reddening, the girl wiped porridge from her chin and nodded. “Pretty good,” she said. “The running’s hard and we’re nervous ’bout tonight’s simulation, but no complaints. You ain’t giving out any hints, are you?”

“I don’t know what it will be myself,” said Max. “But if you stick to your training, you should be able to handle it. What should you do if it’s vyes?”

“Assume a spread formation to protect our archers.”

“What about ogres?”

“Wedge formation to resist a charge, and the archers should use fire arrows.”

“And what about demons or deathknights?”

“Zenuvian iron treated with Blood Petals,” she replied. “But each archer only has three of those.”

“Then I guess they’d better hit the mark,” said Max.

The girl nodded and picked absently at a scab. “You really think we got a chance when Prusias comes?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I heard his army’s huge,” put in Kat. “I heard he’s got a secret weapon!”

“His army is big,” conceded Max, “but don’t assume he’s going to send the whole thing. It’s not easy to move an army, and Prusias’s kingdom is all the way across the sea. And don’t forget that his weapons aren’t so secret anymore. We’ve got some very smart people studying them right now, not to mention a hundred other battalions that are training just as hard as we are. Everyone at Rowan these days has chosen to be here, chosen to fight. I like our odds.”

The girl grinned and Max left them on that hopeful note, continuing to his command tent, a roomy pavilion where he could consult with his officers, plan exercises, and review Tweedy’s innumerable reports. Stepping inside, he splashed some water on his face and fairly collapsed into a pelt-covered chair. Tweedy hopped in after, directing Jack to deposit a heap of documents on a small writing desk. When the boy had departed, the hare hopped onto the opposite chair.

“Did you really mean that?”

“Did I mean what?” replied Max wearily, rubbing his eyes. He found the responsibilities of command—the endless decisions, the posturing, the need to project constant optimism—to be absolutely exhausting.

“That bit about liking our odds,” Tweedy clarified. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t need to put on a brave show for me, son,” said the hare. “Prusias can send a mere fraction of his forces and outnumber us ten to one. If he leverages—”

Max cut him off. “It’s not your job to worry about Prusias,” he snapped. “It’s your job to supply twelve hundred troops who are assigned one mile of trench between the outer walls and Old College. You should be worrying about the fact that my archers have only three Zenuvian arrows.”

“And they should be grateful for even that meager allotment,” retorted the hare. “Some shipments have gone missing and the iron’s being rationed out on a miser’s scales. Most has been allocated to the archers on the outer walls.”

“Where there’s war, there’s black markets,” Max reflected. “I’d bet the lutins know where to find some. Sniff around Cloubert’s and see if you can turn anything up.”

Tweedy was appalled. “You want me to descend down into that godforsaken den of vice? I won’t—”

“—let your battalion down,” Max interjected. “If you need help stealing some, get Ajax to help you. I’m guessing he has plenty of …”

“Plenty of what?” grumbled Tweedy, jotting down the order.

Max sat up abruptly. “Madam Petra!” he exclaimed. “If she hasn’t already laid her hands on some, she’ll know where to get it. Do you know who she is?”

“A woman whose striking appearance corrupts our young gentlemen by mere proximity?” the hare said disapprovingly. “Yes, I believe I do. And how shall we pay for these illicit goods—assuming she can acquire them on our behalf?”

“I’ll pay for them out of my own wages,” said Max.

“Very generous of you. But I don’t believe your wages could buy more than a wee ingot or two. Even without a smuggler’s rapacious markups, the stuff’s more valuable than gold.”

Max frowned. “Just make the inquiry,” he sighed. “We’ll figure out how to pay later.”

“Very well,” replied Tweedy, “but I should not think the lady will extend you any credit. For one, black markets are a cash business. For another, it’s my understanding that you already owe the lady an estate on Piter’s Folly.”

“How did you hear about that?” asked Max, reddening.

“A certain smee,” remarked the hare with an amused twitch of his whiskers. “And now, with your permission, we shall turn to the lists.…”

This they did, reading through the lieutenants’ rankings and strategizing how best to train the troops in the least amount of time. Max did not delude himself that they had much to spare; there were already reports that Prusias’s forces were massing near Blyssian harbors and that its shipyards were working at a feverish pace. At best, Max guessed that they had two months, maybe three, until they came under attack. Whether that would be the main assault or merely feints to assess Rowan’s strength remained to be seen. In any case, he wanted his troops to be prepared.

The best gauge of the battalion’s readiness was the combat simulation at the end of each day. It was nearly five o’clock when Max and Tweedy emerged from the tent, rounding the fields and climbing to the top of their observation hill.

“I wonder what the young ladies have concocted,” mused Tweedy, looking down upon the trenches where the units were settling into position.

“Something devious, I hope,” said Max, breathing deep and letting the crisp air fill his lungs. It was a fine evening, the moon a slim crescent in a darkening sky. In the distance, Max heard Old Tom and the faint clamor of another battalion—one of the shoreguard, no doubt—engaged in an exercise of their own. Gazing at a neighboring hill, Max saw Cynthia and Lucia conspiring beneath an oak, making their final preparations.

The attack began with a convoy of Stygian crows. Once Max signaled for the simulation to begin, the demonic horrors came flapping from the southern treetops to swoop down at the entrenched battalion. There were hundreds of them, their screeches filling the air as they wheeled and dove at the troops, leaving bright trails of smoke and flame.

The attackers were met with volley after volley of virtual arrows, slender shafts of green or red light that issued a golden burst whenever they scored a hit. The green shafts represented a normal arrow while red represented those tipped with Zenuvian iron and Blood Petals. While Max was pleased at the flurry of gold flashes, the troops were using far too many of their special arrows. They might well need them for—

The field began to tremble and shake as though an earthquake were occurring. Even as the Stygian crows were dissipating, a hundred ogres came barreling out of the woods. The phantasms were terrifyingly lifelike, bearing down upon the troops at terrific speed with maces and clubs that could crush bone to powder.

But even as archers redirected their fire and the pikemen hurried into formation, another threat appeared. From the woods, a rakshasa emerged—a tusked, tiger-headed demon—wreathed in flames and leading a troop of mounted deathknights. The archers wavered, uncertain whether to direct their fire at the ogres or the hellish cavalry. All semblance of order disappeared; arrows were fired at will with many targeting the fearsome rakshasa. Even worse, most had spent their special arrows on the Stygian crows and thus those that struck the rakshasa and deathknights had little effect. When it appeared that the enemy cavalry would reach the trench before the ogres, the pikemen panicked and broke formation, realizing only too late they had been tricked. At the last moment, the rakshasa and his knights parted ranks and wheeled away from the trench, letting the ogres come roaring through the gap like runaway trains. There were no massed pikes to meet them, only individual weapons at ineffectual angles. The hulking attackers crashed right through the battalion’s line, hardly breaking stride as they stormed through the trenches.

The illusions dissipated and Max groaned. Had the exercise been real, his battalion would have been utterly overwhelmed. When one considered that the units would be spread far thinner over the actual ground they were to defend, the outcome was even more depressing. Shaking his head, Max summoned the officers to his tent.

They crowded inside, sweaty and stinking as they pushed wet hair from their eyes and exchanged glances that spanned the spectrum from angry to sheepish. More than a few glared at Lucia and Cynthia.

“So,” said Max, scanning the group, “what did we learn?”

“That a pair of witches get their jollies by humiliating us,” seethed one hotheaded lieutenant.

“I’m a Mystic, you idiot,” retorted Lucia proudly.

“What’s the difference?” muttered the man darkly. “You should all be strung up.”

“That’s enough,” said Max sharply. “Lucia and Cynthia are here to help us. The exercise tonight was difficult, but not unrealistic. There’s no point to mastering easy simulations—they’ll only get people killed. So, let me ask again. What did you learn?”

“We’ve got to save the special arrows for the true demons,” said Ajax. “Can’t be wasting them on those crows when a regular one will do the job.”

“Good,” said Max. “What else?”

“When that demon came screaming out of the woods, I didn’t know what to do,” confessed a lean, gray-haired woman. “I ordered my archers to fire at it, but maybe they should have kept at the ogres.”

“Same thing with my infantry,” said another. “Pikes pointing every which way and I’d say half were about to flee, illusion or no illusion.”

“Which is why you should be thanking these two,” said Max, gesturing toward Cynthia and Lucia. “If and when the Enemy comes, your soldiers won’t be seeing these things for the first time. Our job is to hold the line, and the only way we’ll do that is if we keep our heads.…”

For the next hour, Max discussed tactics and how to prioritize their targets and subdivide responsibilities among their units should they face intense and varied opposition. Sarah was particularly helpful, drawing diagrams on large sheets of paper and soliciting input from each so that even the surliest lieutenants were soon volunteering their mistakes and voicing suggestions for improvement. Only Umbra remained silent, keeping to the rear where she listened and watched.

“We won’t do it all in a day,” Max said, ignoring Umbra’s implacable stare and rising to dismiss the rest. “Tomorrow we’ll match the soldiers with their new training partners based on your rankings. The simulation will emphasize using Zenuvian arrows on the proper targets. If we’re all very nice, perhaps Lucia won’t send another rakshasa.”

“I make no promises,” she replied, eliciting a general laugh.

“All right,” said Max. “See that your troops are fed and get a good night’s rest. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

They filed out, but Max’s friends remained. They sat on three of the many cushions piled about the tent. Lucia retrieved Kettlemouth, who had been lounging in his little cage covered by a silk kerchief. She let him climb out, and he settled sleepily on her lap.

“That was quite a simulation,” said Max, pouring himself lukewarm coffee. “Next time, warn me if there’s going to be anything like a rakshasa.”

Lucia gave an indifferent shrug. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

“Did the arrows work properly?” asked Cynthia. “I was concentrating on the illusion.” It was Cynthia who had devised the spell that allowed the soldiers’ ordinary weapons to shoot the tracer bolts of light, an ingenious mixture of enchanted phosphoroil that was dabbed on the front of each bow before the simulations. Other battalions had already borrowed the recipe and incorporated it into their own training.

“They were perfect,” said Max.

“We’re going to need more Zenuvian arrows,” said Sarah pointedly. “Three per archer just aren’t enough.”

“I take it that’s my cue,” muttered Tweedy grumpily. Giving Max a halfhearted salute, he hopped out of the tent.

“We’re also going to need more Mystics,” Sarah added, looking puzzled at the hare’s sudden departure. “I know we’ll have these two, but we have a mile of trench to cover. Sarah and Lucia won’t even be within hailing distance of one another.”

“Mystics are in high demand these days,” said Max. “We’re lucky we have these two.”

“You should ask David to enlist with us,” said Lucia.

Max laughed. “Don’t you think every battalion would love to have David Menlo?”

“I’m sure they would,” said Sarah. “But we have Cynthia. If she asks him …”

Cynthia’s broad, pale face flushed red as a tomato. “I—I have asked,” she confessed. “He’s busy studying that creepy-crawly thing. And besides, the Director’s asked him to be our navy.”

“How is David going to be our navy?” asked Sarah.

“By destroying every Enemy ship that approaches these shores,” said Cynthia proudly. “And don’t you think he can’t. My David can do anything.”

“Your David?” Max clarified.

“Yes,” said Cynthia, steadfastly ignoring Lucia’s giggles. “He wrote me a poem that told me how he felt. He’s absolutely wonderful and we’re now a steady item.”

“A steady item,” repeated Max, blinking.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “Don’t look so astonished.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Scratch that—I am. Not that he’s with you, of course, but I … I didn’t know David wrote poetry!”

“He doesn’t, but the smee helped,” explained Cynthia. “I don’t mind. David said that smee was very helpful at getting him to sort through and acknowledge his special feelings.”

Max’s mouth fell open.

“That’s a winning look,” she remarked. “And if you …” Cynthia trailed off, her attention drifting to the tent’s opening where Julie Teller was poised, looking awkward and hesitant. Julie was dressed for travel, wearing a gray overcoat and a white cap that showed her auburn hair to great advantage.

“I was wondering if you had a moment,” she said, looking at Max.

He nodded, ignoring his friends as their eyebrows lifted in unison. Easing up from their cushions, they slipped discreetly out of the tent. Only Lucia paused at the exit.

“Should we send for the smee?” she inquired innocently.

Max glared at her.

Even when they had gone, Julie hovered at the tent’s entrance, gazing about at the maps and diagrams, battered shields, and muddy pelts strewn upon the floor.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“I—I shouldn’t,” she stuttered. “People will gossip. Maybe we could take a walk instead?”

Grabbing a lantern, he followed her outside into the crisp night, pulling his cloak about him and inhaling the wood smoke that drifted across the campus. The Euclidean Fields were smooth once again, the trenches having been leveled so that the whole field looked like an enormous slab of damp clay that gleamed beneath the moon. The bonfires were still burning, however, and many of the Trench Rats still lingered by them, roasting sausages, gambling, or singing along as one of them played a fife.

Staring at the scene, Julie shook her head with mild disbelief. “So much has changed,” she said wistfully. “I watched you play soccer here on All Hallow’s Eve when you were just a First Year. You beat the Second Years almost single-handedly. Do you remember?”

Max smiled and nodded.

“And now I hardly recognize this place,” she said, gazing about. “It’s all been swallowed up by mud and blood and everything else. No one plays soccer anymore.”

“Did you come here to talk about soccer?” prodded Max.

Shaking her head, she took the lantern from his hand and made for a path that wound along the woods. Max fell into step beside her.

“I—I came to say that I’m sorry,” she said. “I want to apologize for my behavior when I last saw you. I said some awful things … inexcusable things.”

“Please don’t worry about that,” said Max gently. “I deserved it, and I know you didn’t really mean them.”

“I appreciate that,” she murmured. “I also wanted to say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?”

“Glenharrow,” she answered. “Tonight. Thomas and his family are coming with us. It’s too dangerous for us to remain here with my little brother. And my parents aren’t soldiers, Max. They’re too frightened to stay, and they need me to protect them.”

“I understand,” said Max. “Glenharrow sounds like a good choice. Nigel sent his family there this morning.”

“At least I’ll know someone,” she sighed. “How are things with your troops? Everyone’s talking about Max McDaniels and his Trench Rats.”

“They’re coming along,” he said. “A work in progress.”

“I was proud when I’d heard you signed up with them.” Her voice choked with emotion. “Those people have had a hard go of it. They need someone like you, something bright on their side.”

She stopped and gazed up at the stars, shining far above.

“When I was six, my grandmother told me a tale about a maiden who was courted by both the Aurora and the Polestar and had to choose between them,” she recalled softly. “The Polestar was constant; every evening she could find him in the night sky, twinkling at her from the very same spot. Plain, but predictable. But the Aurora was simply spellbinding, a swirl of mysterious lights and mists that made her ache with longing. Utterly smitten, the maiden spurned the Polestar and chose the Aurora.”

“And did she choose wisely?” asked Max.

“Of course not,” said Julie. “While the Aurora was beautiful and glamorous, he was inconstant. Unlike the Polestar, the Aurora never stayed for long—he was wont to disappear and the maiden could never be certain if and when he would return. Eventually she withered away from loneliness, forever staring into the heavens and hoping the Aurora would return.”

With a teary smile, Julie took his hand.

“I’ll never forget the day I fell in love with you,” she said. “It was during that very soccer match. You were like a god, so swift and dashing—almost radiant. When I looked at you … it was like fingers running through my soul. But something in you changed after you went off to the Sidh. Something had awakened, something grand and terrible and far too great for little Julie Teller. And when your father died … well, I knew I’d lost you forever.”

Max began to speak, but Julie squeezed his hand.

“I won’t be that girl in the story,” she insisted. “Thomas is not a hero, Max, but he’s smart and kind and constant. I’m the most important thing in his life and always know just where I stand. I’ve come to learn that there’s real value in that—a value greater than any infatuation.”

“Thomas is a very lucky guy,” said Max. “I suspect he knows it.”

“He does,” she said, fumbling for a handkerchief. “He knows I’m here with you. He encouraged it, told me I should say my piece and put things to rest. I guess I’ve done that.”

“I guess you have,” said Max, hugging her. “I wish you both all the joy and happiness in the world.”

She thanked him, staring up into his face and wiping away her tears. “Did you ever love me?” she wondered.

“I think I did,” said Max. “At the very least, I wanted to.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “I was never sure. I was always afraid that you’d fallen in love in the Sidh. With the girl who gave you this.”

With her finger, she traced the thin white line that ran from Max’s cheek to his chin.

“Why do you say that?”

Standing on her tiptoes, Julie kissed his cheek and held him close. “Because young lovers are foolish,” she whispered. “They always go for the ones who hurt them.”

Releasing him, she placed the lantern back in his hand and backed away. For a second or two, she gazed at him, as though trying to fix the moment in her mind. And then, with a farewell wave, Julie Teller turned and strode briskly up the path. Moments later she was gone.

Max returned to his command tent, setting the lantern upon the desk and sitting at his chair. He was flooded with conflicting thoughts and emotions: regrets, grief, and a sincere hope that Julie would find happiness. He reflected on what she had to say, her thoughts on love and her intuition regarding Scathach.

Max wondered if she realized the irony of her tale. While Max might have been Julie’s Aurora, Scathach was his. The warrior maiden lived in the Sidh and Max lived here: in this tent, this time, this world.

When he’d left Lugh’s castle at Rodrubân, Scathach had given Max an ivory brooch and a reminder to remember that he was the son of a king. Unclasping it from his cloak, Max studied the object, tracing his finger over the image of a Celtic sun and the curving arcs of its rays.

An hour passed, maybe two with Max sitting quietly and musing on his life. His thoughts were not only of Julie and Scathach, but also of his parents and Nick, the many people whose lives had intersected his and were no more. His mind had drifted far away when something abruptly brought it back.

The tent flap had rippled open. Max caught the movement from the corner of his eye, a slight but undeniable disturbance as though a breeze had brushed the canvas apart. Normally, he’d have paid this little mind, but tonight the wind was in the west. Casually, he set the brooch down upon the desk. A second later, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

Max’s ring was scalding hot.